Mornings
by lemsterette
Summary: a series of Toby & Andy moments spanning pre-series to post, not necessarily in chronological order. Huck and Molly now included! (Season 4 spoilers)
1. mornings

Mornings with her had always been his favorite.

He wasn't a morning person-this was for sure. He hadn't been born one, hadn't been one in high school, had made sure that his clases were after 9 in college, and only got up now at the crack of dawn because of how much he loved his job (but don't tell anyone). It was only during the time that he was living with her that he actally enjoyed the hours before the day began, usually long before sunrise.

This wasn't because they slept in, either; Sundays, it was true, meant mushroom omeletts and bagels with lox and long foreign policy debates, and (if he were lucky), breakfast was generally preceded by some not-so-innocent morning activity. But weekday mornings were hardly as relaxed, and for some reason he loved them just as much.

On random mornings—he never really knew when they were coming-she'd warn him that she was setting her alarm insanely early-no, really, Toby, 4:30-and that she'd sleep in the other room if he preferred. He always laughed her off, telling her that even fewer hours of sleep with her by his side would be preferrable to a night spent alone. This line, and ones like it, earned him either kisses or smacks on the head, depending on her mood (of course).

On those mornings she'd groan at the alarm at 4:30, burrow further into his neck like a kitten in her slumber-"Toby, make it stop." He'd laugh a little, and slap at the snooze button, and enjoy her extra twenty minutes of sleep as much as she herself did-he couldn't fall asleep after being woken up (a problem she clearly didn't face), but her warmth and the contentment of a good job and his own home and the wife against him kept him happy. He'd thread his fingers through her hair, marvel at the red and the radiating heat of her scalp, the warm of her breath, the supple, pliable presence she formed against him. But by 5 she'd be up, bustling, and usually he'd be up with her. They'd trudge to their little kitchen in their little apartment (sometimes he still marveled that it belonged to them, just them), and he'd hardboil her eggs and pour his cereal while she made them both coffee and they talked about nothing, or adulthood, or silliness, because real talking came only after caffeine.

When they were properly caffeinated she'd spread out everything over their little white formica counter, folders and papers and legislative reports, and she'd make him tell her everything about something domestic (because she was the expert on foreign policy in their relationship, as much as it pained him to admit it). He'd talk to her about tax reform in the Maryland 5th or the new FEC policy or the speech he'd been working on, and she'd listen and nod, chew on her pen and scribble down notes and he'd ask questions just as much as she did. She was qualified for her job, she always had been, but now that she'd decided to run for Congress she'd decided (and she wasn't wrong) that she needed to know everything (absolutely every little thing, Toby) about all domestic policy, whether it applied to her district or not, because she refused to make a fool of herself on the floor and she was a smart girl and who was he mocking anyway.

From 5 until 6, they'd sit, and sip, and talk, and depending on how helpful or mocking or unintentionally cute he was, sometimes he'd get to join her in the shower afterwards-those mornings were always the best. Either way, though, those were the only times he'd voluntarily get up early-because though she didn't say it (didn'tcouldn'twouldnever), those were the mornings she needed him and he'd always liked to be needed.

Mornings nowadays are a little lonelier. There's no ridiculously early alarm, true, but something about being able to sleep as much as his own job allows smacks of solitude in a way that's not altogether pleasant. He still, to his shame and chagrin, cannot manage to work the coffee pot in the apartment-he swears the thing can recognize a female touch and rejects his own. Now the morning showers are always alone, and he can never seem to remember which white shirt is the best or what goes with what or what he's supposed to do with the milk carton when it's empty.


	2. state of the union

The State of the Union. And his last, if he were being honest with himself. Congratulations abounded. He was the man of the hour, but all he wanted to be was drunk.

This was easier said than done, given his location. He'd decided to try the main after party-the one where everyone would be-but all they seemed to be serving was champagne. It took him twenty minutes (about nineteen and a half minutes too long, if you asked him) to find a bartender who would serve him his customary JD, and then about forty minutes (years too long) to find Andy.

The time spent peering angrily over the crowd from his barstool felt wasted. As he scanned the room for her red hair, she was spending the time more productively; her first time drinking since having the babies, she was sipped champagne, the only alcohol that had ever tasted remotely good to her.

When Toby found her she was on her fourth glass. "Hello there."

She looked up, smiling at him for once-"Hey yourself."

A greater man would have told her how exquisite she looked, mentioned how the bill was going, asked her to dance with him. He was a lesser man, so he rubbed his thumb a few times over her palm and let her compliment him on the speech while he became progressively more drunk. A greater man would also have declined her invitation to come home with her-"I only have the sitter till one," she explained-but he wasn't that man, probably never had been.

The cab ride was quick enough-hands in her hair, nose in her neck, his tongue tasting her perfume. She giggled, the sound as bubbly as her beverage of choice, and he felt like the teenager he never had been.

The twins were asleep when they got there, and they sat with them a while-him watching them, her watching him. After a while she stood (steadier than before), layed a hand on his shoulder, told him she was going to bed. He nodded, his attention elsewhere-Huck had screwed up his face, presumably a response to some dream-and stayed alone there, watching, until his mind was made up.

It was maybe forty minutes later-another forty minutes without her, but this time not wasted-that he shrugged off his jacket, shirt, tie, and shoes, folding them on the rocking chair, and padded down the hall to her bedroom.

The sheets were cool against his skin, her body radiating heat, as he slid into the bed behind her. She was in that first stage of sleep, the false one where just the slightest noise would rouse her. The two arms that slipped around her waist did more than that.

She rolled over, startled, and he folded her more securely into him. Resistant, she pulled back.

"You're drunk," she accused.

He only smiled. "A little while ago, you were too."

"And you never see your children."

"I just did."

"You're drunk."

"You're sexy."

He was done with words; the fingers of his left hand slipped beneath her cotton top and splayed over the warmth of her back. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to her collarbone.

"Hi," he murmured to the freckle in the hollow of her throat.

He heard her little laugh—the giggle he'd so enjoyed before. Then he felt her fingers on his neck, her arms around him. Her nails combing through the hair at the back of his head, scratching up his scalp. And he knew it was over.

"Mmmm…"


	3. grocery shopping

It's Tuesday night and the twins are rowdy.

They're always a little louder with him; he's exciting and rare. Exotic. Usually he doesn't have them on Tuesdays (some filibuster has kept Andy late), and so it doesn't occur to him that taking them grocery shopping is not the brightest idea he's ever had.

It's all fine, all very adorable, when they walk in—he's got a twin holding each hand, and a few of the soccer moms and bored-looking teenage cashiers flash him smiles, which he doesn't quite know how to return—he doesn't want to be rude, but a smile back feels like taking credit for the twins' cuteness. He's slightly hunched to hold their hands, because they aren't yet all that tall, and he soon feels himself being pulled almost into a pyramid of lemons by Molly's eagerness.

Somehow they make it through his entire (usually short-seeming) list. He's managed to get the both of them into the cart, which seemed like a great idea until curious Huckleberry and downright mischievous Molly decided to reach out and knock over all the soup cans and cereal boxes their little hands could reach. They don't seem all too interested Toby's "keep all appendages within the moving vehicle" game, though he thinks it is a winner. Soon Toby finds himself not the recipient of the "Your adorable children indicate that you are an excellent father and all-around swell guy" smile, but instead, the subtle (not-so-subtle) "would you please quiet down those rowdy kids before they become juvenile delinquents you complete moron" glare.

By the time he makes it to the checkout counter, he is relieved. This feeling lasts only until he remembers the candy-stocked shelves that line each individual counter. Molly begins to yelp for Kit-Kats as soon as the orangey red wrappers are in her line of vision, and Huck, who has never liked too much noise, begins to cry.

"There there now. Err."

He tucks an appeasement candy bar into her little paw, feeling rather like Neville Chamberlain (sorely missing the exuberant cries of "Peace in our time!"), hoping that it will satisfy her until they make it home. He squeezes Huck's hand with three of his fingers, smiling at the little boy until the tears slow and eventually stop. Somehow they, and all the food, make it to the car.

When Andy comes to pick them up that night, she finds the three of them tucked into Toby's bed. He's got a kid in each arm and a head on each shoulder. She smiles at the picture it makes, almost wanting to snap a picture. Her children are sleepy; excitable Molly has calmed enough to rest her drowsy head against Daddy (a rare occurrence), and to permit his stroking of her hair, and Huck seems content to cuddle up and watch the news that Toby has tactfully put on.

"The news?" she teases. "What ever happened to your staunch defense of the Muppets? 'It's Fozzie Bear, not Fuzzy Bear,' and all that?"

"I child-proofed my house. I will not childproof my news watching. My children will be well-informed—"

"—And literate, unlike the rest of the populace. I do remember things." She smiles at him. "And I think you meant _our_ children."

"I suppose I am content to share, yes. Of course, if that's to be the protocol, I think it only fair that you should be awarded the grocery store visits. Your area of expertise, after all."

She laughs a little. "They get excited." A pause. "You ready to go home, sweetheart?" she asks her son, the kid closer to where she is perched on the edge of Toby's bed.

Huck, usually the passive one to Molly's uproar, shakes his head no and burrows further into his father. Once settled, he glances quickly up at his mom to make sure he hasn't hurt her feelings. He doesn't think he has, apparently, because he's happy to turn back, cheek to Toby's chest, after just a second of soul-searching in her eyes.

"How about you, Mol? You happy here?"

But their daughter is asleep already, Toby's long, ink-stained fingers tangled in her ink-colored hair. Ying and yang, she thinks.

"You gonna let them stay? Why, it's not even my birthday!"  
"My will is feeble in the face of iron-fisted Huck."

Toby nods. "You are only a Congresswoman, after all; they don't teach you guys how to argue like they do in pre-school."

She bites her tongue on her response to his perpetual abuse for her job, deciding that not even a teasing fight is worth ruining the calm that has settled over her little family. She presses a kiss to Huck's forehead, then to Molly's, and, after a short hesitation, to Toby's cheek, right at the edge of his beard.

"Goodnight," she murmurs, lips still close to his ear.

"Goodnight," he answers, when she has pulled back. "I'll bring them by before work."

She nods, and turns to go, trying not to think about how much she wishes she could just decide, on a whim, to sleep in Toby's bed on a random Tuesday night.


End file.
